


Approximate Sunlight

by Arianette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1980s, Big Brother Mycroft, Childhood Memories, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, Teen Mycroft, Whump, but not by Sherlock's parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianette/pseuds/Arianette
Summary: What it says on the tin--a little glimpse into the past of our favorite consulting detective.





	Approximate Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is actually taken from a chapter in a longer work I'd written some months back, but that story is rather darker and more explicit. Because this chapter is decently lengthy and works as a stand-alone, I opted to post it separately in order to make it available to audiences not interested in the direction of the parent fic.

**November, 1987**

 

“This is it?”

Mycroft nodded, picking his luggage up and laying it on the seat between himself and Walter McGilicutty, the boy with whom he’d shared lodgings for the past three months at Eton. The old Buick gave a little jerk as it rolled over the bumpy gravel.

 

“Yes,” he said smoothly, “This is it.”

 

“Oh, lovely place.” Diane McGilicutty remarked, admiring the soft red stucco dotted with ivy. “Looks very homey. Shall I stop here?”

 

“Here is fine. Thank you, Mrs. McGilicutty.” Mycroft replied, smiling politely. “I am much obliged.”

 

“Oh, anytime dear! Any friend of Walter’s is a friend of mine.”

 

He nodded, still smiling. “Still, I do appreciate it.”

 

“And you're very welcome. Now,” she started, fussing over him as only mothers do, “have you got everything? All your bags, your spare key?”

 

“I do, thank you. And that looks to be mummy’s car in the drive. If I hurry I may still catch her home.”

 

“Well, go on then!” She shooed, dropping him at the end of the drive. “She'll be positively thrilled to see you!”

 

“I should hope so.” He remarked amiably. “Thanks again Mrs. McGillicutty, Walter.” He nodded his farewells. “Have a pleasant week.”

 

“Oh, you too dear, and tell your mum hello for me. Remember, we’ll be here bright and early Sunday morning to head back. ‘Bye now!”

 

Mycroft stepped out of the car, the soles of his leather shoes clicking against the pavement. He'd only just gotten them, a rather indulgent birthday gift from mummy and father (“after all, it isn’t every day our young man turns 14”), and he was still in the process of breaking them in. He smiled as he felt the wind tousling his hair—cool morning mist still heavy in the air—and slung his tartan rucksack over one shoulder as he made his way down the drive.

 

“Mycroft!”

 

Mycroft had hardly stepped through the door before he found himself being charged by a three and a half foot mass of gangly limbs and bushy black curls, all wrapped up in burgundy wool. The sleeves of the oversized sweater (Mycroft recognized it as one of his own, long since outgrown) rode down to his elbows as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist and attached himself like a barnacle.

 

“Mycroft!” He repeated, looking up, a little breathless, “Why are you here?”

 

“Well, I—”

 

“Mikey! Is that you?” His mother popped her head around the corner, a tote on one arm and a large leather portfolio in the other hand. “Whatever are you doing back? You said you wouldn't be able to make it home for the fall recess!”

 

“Yes, well, I hadn't planned to—”, he started, stepping forward and trying to extricate himself from Sherlock’s octopus limbs. Like a human Chinese finger trap, he only succeeded in causing the little boy to cling harder, tightening his hold and stepping on Mycroft’s toes so that the soles of his bare feet were aligned with the tops his brother’s leather-clad ones. Sherlock held strong as he began to move again, so Mycroft walked them—two entities moving as one like a Chimera of ancient myth—to the staircase, where he promptly deposited Sherlock with a gentle shove. His mother just looked on, amused.

 

“As I was saying,” he said with a pointed glance at the boy, who looked wholly unabashed, “I didn’t expect to be free this week. I had plans to attend the fencing tournament in Yorkshire, of course, but an incident has since arisen and the trip was cancelled until it could be resolved.”

“Was it the swords?” Sherlock interjected excitedly, eyes lighting up. “Did someone get _stabbed_?”

 

For one so young, Mycroft thought, he exhibited a rather concerning attraction to danger. Still, it had been a long time since he’d seen his brother in such good spirits, so he chose not to comment.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock,” He said instead, with a roll of his eyes, “I’ve told you before. They’re rapiers, not broadswords--and they aren’t even sharp. The most severe injury one could expect to result from a _fencing_ match is a strained muscle.”

 

Sherlock looked a little disappointed at that, but it did nothing to diminish his cheery demeanor. This was the first he’d seen of Mycroft in months, and the periodic calls on the telephone simply weren’t comparable to having him back in the flesh.

 

“No, it was one of the instructors, I’m afraid.” Mycroft continued. “As it turns out, he was engaging in some rather unsavory behavior. They’re holding off until they find a suitable replacement.”

 

Sherlock nodded sagely, and Mycroft laughed, realizing that Sherlock had scarcely a clue of the nature of that _unsavory behavior_ and was adopting his most knowing expression to hide that fact.

 

“It was a spat with another faculty member, a love triangle of sorts. From what I hear it got rather ugly…” He lowered his voice, raising one eyebrow at his mother. _“I believe he even arranged a hit on the poor woman’s husband.”_

 

“Mummy, what’s a hit?” Sherlock asked with sudden interest, having been encouraged rather than deterred by the hushed tones.

 

“Nothing, dear.” She placated, smiling at Sherlock—who frowned. At that moment she noticed his feet, and her brows rose to her hairline. “Sherlock, where are your shoes? Surely you don’t intend to go to school without them?”

 

He lit up again. “Oh, can I?”

 

“Absolutely not, you silly boy,” she admonished, “There's snow on the ground! Off you go, I believe I saw them by the doorway in the kitchen.”

 

As Sherlock scampered off in search of the dark green Wellies, Mrs. Holmes turned back to Mycroft. "Well, thank goodness for questionable characters for bringing my son home to me. How long will you stay?”

 

“Only until Sunday. We return to classes at the beginning of next week.”

 

Mrs. Holmes' lips curled slightly, her eyes dancing. “Oh, but parting is such sweet sorrow, dear boy. Whatever will we do when you take leave?”

 

“Whatever it is you were doing before I arrived, I expect.” He replied, smiling wryly. “This is, after all, an entire week in the grace of my company that you weren’t afforded before.”

 

“I suppose it is.” She conceded, turning toward the hall with a wink. “We’ll take what we can get—if a week is all that is, I suppose we’ll just have to find a way to muddle through.”

 

“A week?!” Sherlock exclaimed, making his way back into the foyer, boots in tow. “That’s hardly any time at all! And it won’t be like this summer—I’m going to be spending all of it at school!” His nose wrinkled in disgust.

 

Sherlock didn’t particularly dislike school—he’d long since accepted it as a necessary evil that came with being a child in modern Britain—but he wasn’t keen on spending the only week that Mycroft was in somewhere else entirely. The children there weren’t unkind, necessarily, but they didn’t take to him right away—and he certainly made no effort to warm them up to him of his own accord. The only saving grace, he thought, was his teacher, Ms. Berry. She was young, younger than Sherlock’s mother, and kind. She encouraged him to explore his interests both in and out of the home, and had even lent him her personal books on topics that he had taken an interest in. He liked Ms. Berry.

 

“Can’t I stay home?” He pleaded, “Just for today? Mycroft is here and I’m going to miss it.”

 

“Now dear, your education is very important.” Mrs. Holmes said sternly, looking as if her mind was made up. “You know you aren’t to stay home unless you’re quite ill or otherwise unable to attend.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, looking between Mycroft and his mother silently. After a beat, his face grew softer and he spoke again.

 

“I am.” He said solemnly, dropping his eyebrows for effect. “I am very sick.”

 

Mrs. Holmes quirked a lip, and Mycroft turned away to hide his grin.

 

“Oh, are you now?” She asked, feigning concern. “What seems to be the trouble then, darling?”

 

“My head.” He said with conviction. “My head is aching and my stomach hurts. It’s probably an infection, I should have come inside before dark yesterday like you said…”

 

He nodded sadly, the picture of misery, then added as an afterthought, “And I’m burning up.”

 

“Oh my, a fever too?” she tutted, laying a hand on his forehead. “Do we need to call a doctor? Perhaps a trip to the clinic is in order if it’s that bad!”

 

“No, no I don’t need a hospital.” He said quickly. “I think I can recover right here. Mycroft can look after me, can’t you Mycroft?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know Sherlock.” Mycroft replied, looking suitably apprehensive. “I don’t know that I’m equipped to deal with an illness of this caliber. Surely you’d want to be in a suitable facility, in case things take a turn for the worst?”

 

“The worst?” He asked with wide eyes. "You mean if I _die_?"

 

“Yes, Sherlock. Best not take any chances. They’ll want do lots of tests. Check your reflexes, take your temperature, draw blood….You might even have to stay in overnight.”

 

Sherlock looked distraught at the thought of wasting an entire night sat up in a hospital bed, then got quiet, thoughtful.

 

“Do I get to keep the blood?” He asked finally, and Mycroft did his best impression of dire concern.

 

“Oh no, Sherlock. They’ll need that to make sure you don’t have any life-threatening diseases. There might even be a bruise.”

 

Sherlock looked interested again at that, and Mycroft regretted his choice of words. Despite his small frame and paper-pale skin, Sherlock was far from fragile. Through scrapes and burns and broken bones, Mycroft had never seen a child so quick to recover and then go barreling headfirst right back to doing whatever it was that had gotten him injured in the first place.

 

Eventually, though, Sherlock must have decided that the gamble wasn’t worth it.

 

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.” He confessed, twisting the toe of one boot into the hardwood floor. “I’m not sick.”

 

Mummy looked positively shocked, and Sherlock scowled.

 

“You knew, anyway.” He accused, frowning again.

 

“I did.” His mother admitted. “But you shouldn’t have lied to me, Sherlock.”

 

“I know,” He said softly, looking down—shame written all over his face. “I’m sorry Mummy.”

 

“It’s alright, dear.” She said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I know you miss your brother when he’s away. But don’t worry, Sherlock. It’s only for a few hours; the day will pass before you know it.”

 

“Besides,” she added with a smile, “You’re taking a trip today, remember?”

 

Sherlock smiled too, apparently having forgotten the day’s plans in all of the excitement.

 

“Yes!” He turned to Mycroft, eager to share. “We’re going to the pumpkin patch.”

 

“A pumpkin patch, really? Sounds interesting.”

 

“It is!” Sherlock declared. “There’s a creek on the grounds with lots of marine life and there’s ivy and moss and all kinds of flora, and Ms. Berry said if there’s time after I pick out my pumpkin I can walk around and collect samples. She even gave me a soil probe and buckets to bring on the bus!”

 

“Oh, it’s shaping up to be a wonderful day, then. You certainly don’t want to miss that.”

 

“You certainly don’t, Sherlock.” His mother agreed, looking at her watch. “And we’ve only got a few more minutes here or we’ll both be late. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

 

“No.” Sherlock said honestly, black curls bouncing as he shook his head.

 

“Well, there’s toast on the table waiting for you and jam and butter in the fridge. Go on now, quickly, so we can leave before sundown.”

 

She picked up Sherlock’s backpack, scouring the front table, covered in books, for any assignments she may have missed. Mycroft picked up a sheet of paper bearing Sherlock’s name along with some messy calculations and a punnett square.

 

“What’s this?”

 

Mummy glanced at the paper then at Sherlock, coming back from the kitchen toast in hand.

 

“Hardy-Weinberg Equilibrium?” She ventured.

 

Sherlock nodded, taking a bite.

 

“Not for school, I shouldn’t think?” Mycroft remarked.

 

“No,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of toast, “This is for fun.”

 

“Still studying the moths, then?”

 

Sherlock had been invested in this particular endeavor for going on six weeks now—an impressive length of time even with Sherlock’s tendency toward adopting a borderline-obsessive focus on any project he took an interest in. The moths were housed in Sherlock’s classroom at school (courtesy of his favorite teacher), and Sherlock had been providing Mycroft with regular telephone updates on their progress since the research had begun. Ostensibly, it was a means of studying allele frequency by observing patterns of inheritance in pantry moths (or, more properly, Indian meal moths, as Sherlock insisted on calling them). Personally, however, Mycroft suspected that no small part of the motivation was that Sherlock just liked the moths.

 

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Five more have hatched since Friday, and two of the larvae have entered the pupal stage. Ms. Berry says she might be able to incorporate them into our lesson, if it’s alright with me.”

 

“That’s wonderful, Sherlock.” Mycroft congratulated, handing his brother the small grey backpack—another of his hand-me-downs. “It sounds like it’s really coming along.”

 

“Well,” Mrs. Holmes started, “We really must be going, dear. I’ll be at the university if you need anything at all, but sparing that I’ll see you just as soon as I pick your brother up from school. Your father should be here before we are, perhaps you can help him to get dinner started?”

 

“Will do, Mummy.” He replied. “Have a good day.”

 

“You too, darling.” She said smiling, kissing his cheek. “I do appreciate it. We’ll see you in a few hours.”

 

With that, she swept out of the house, bag and book under one arm and Sherlock under the other. Mycroft smiled as he watched her ambling to the car, a still-reluctant Sherlock matching her step for step. As they backed up and pulled away, Mycroft waved one arm before turning and closing the door softly behind him.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When four o’clock rolled around, Mycroft found himself in the kitchen with his father, catching up on affairs at the office and his own experiences at Eton. His father was a kind man, gentle and soft-spoken—a steady compliment to his mother’s colorful personality. As far as he could tell, they were about as happy as two people could be, and perfectly attuned to one another’s idiosyncracies. Watching them together was like watching a well-oiled machine at work.

 

He heard the front door open just as father was pulling the cottage pie from the oven, mismatched oven mitts adorning each arm. His mother walked in, smiling tiredly at them both, and Mycroft was surprised to see Sherlock slipping up the stairs without a word. He turned to his mother in silent question, and she merely shrugged, her face creased in worry.

 

“He’s been that way since I picked him up this afternoon.” she lamented. “Hardly spoke two words in the car ride home, and he’s gone and gotten a black eye which he positively refuses to explain.”

 

Father looked worriedly up the stairs, and Mycroft decided to make an effort of his own.

 

“Sherlock?” he called up, “Dinner is ready. It’s cottage pie, one of your favorites.”

 

He waited a minute, and when there was no reply he tried again.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

This time a small voice called down in answer.

 

“I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

 

Mycroft frowned slightly, glancing between his parents. “I’ll go talk to him.”

 

He climbed the stairs slowly, deliberately stepping on the squeaky boards to allow Sherlock an opportunity to prepare for his arrival.

 

“Sherlock?” he said softly, as he walked into the open bedroom, “Is everything alright?”

 

Sherlock was sat on the floor, leaning against the bed and bouncing a small ball against the opposite wall.

 

“Fine.” Sherlock replied immediately, never breaking his rhythm.

 

Mycroft nodded, stopping in the doorway. “Wouldn’t you like to come to dinner with us? Father’s done something different with the herbs this time. I think it’ll be quite the improvement.”

 

“No. Thank you.”

 

“Well, I’m sure they’d both love to hear about your day at the pumpkin patch?” He tried. “You could tell us about the samples you collected.”

 

“No.” Sherlock said simply.

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“Okay.” He looked around the room, then gestured at the space beside Sherlock. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

Mycroft crossed the room to sit beside him, stepping over the ball as it hit the wall then returned.

 

“Have you started with physics yet?” He asked, changing the topic.

 

“On my own. Not in school.” Sherlock replied easily.

 

“Naturally.” Mycroft replied. “So you know all about the dynamics of the bouncing ball.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mycroft nodded again. “I always hated physics,” he admitted.

 

For the first time since he’d walked in the room, Sherlock turned to look at him.

 

“You did?” he asked, sounding surprised.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “It didn’t come as easily to me as most things do, and I found it rather boring on the whole.”

 

He hummed, slipping his hand into his trouser pocket. “I think I ought to stick with the humanities.”

 

Sherlock made a bit of a face at that. Apart from a healthy appreciation of Shakespeare and a great affinity for music, the only humanities subjects Sherlock tolerated were theatre and bit of philosophy. Mycroft wondered if that would ever change.

 

“Gum?” He offered, pulling out the pack he had gone to retrieve. “It’s strawberry.”

 

Sherlock stared at the small green wrapper like it was some sort of contraband, which Mycroft supposed it was. Their mother didn’t tend to keep gum or candies in the house, and Mycroft knew his brother had a sweet tooth that wasn’t often indulged.

 

He took a piece wordlessly, popped it in his mouth. A silence settled over the room, during which Sherlock caught the ball for good as he seemed to be deliberating.

 

“David’s mother hits him.” He said finally. “She always smells of brandy and she hits him.”

 

He spoke flatly, but there was an undercurrent of anger, indignation in his small voice. Mycroft felt dread settle in his stomach as he guessed where this was going.

 

“How do you know?”

 

Sherlock finally looked at him, leveling him with a glare that communicated his thoughts on the question so effectively that even Mycroft had to appreciate it. “It’s obvious, Mycroft. The pattern of bruising, the way he behaves around her….”

 

Mycroft nodded.

“And what of David’s father?”

 

“He hasn’t got a father.” Sherlock replied. “It’s just him and his mother at home. She’s around a lot, at school. She came to the field trip today.”

 

“Did she?”

 

“Yes, as a parent chaperone. She’d been drinking again before she came. Ms. Berry noticed this time. She doesn’t always notice.”

 

His eyes were trained on the floor.

 

“And what did she do?” Mycroft pressed, finding kindred spirits in dentists tasked with pulling teeth.

 

“Pulled her aside while we were looking for pumpkins and asked David’s mother if she’d feel better heading home for the day.” Sherlock replied. “She was very nice about it.”

 

“And how did David’s mother react?”

 

“She got angry. She shouted at Ms. Berry and grabbed David’s arm to take him home. Everyone was staring.”

 

Sherlock seemed reluctant to offer up any more information, and Mycroft suspected he knew why.

 

“Sherlock, how did you get that black eye?”

 

His brother didn’t take his eyes off the floor.

 

“ _Sherlock._ ”

 

Sherlock looked up then, and winced at the tone. Mycroft felt a tinge of regret.

 

“From David.” He replied eventually, letting out small sigh. “He didn’t like what I said.”

 

Mycroft nodded, waiting for the penny to drop. “And what was that?”

 

“I told him that mothers aren’t supposed to hit their children.” He said quietly. “I don’t think he knew.”

 

Mycroft smiled sadly, his breath catching in his throat at the innocence behind those words. To Sherlock, the right thing was so honest, so simple. His brother was wise beyond his years in many ways, and these reminders of just how young he was sometimes broke Mycroft’s heart.

 

“When did you tell him, Sherlock?”

 

“During the field trip. When his mother grabbed his arm.” He said softly, eyes fixed on the ball he turned over in his hand.

 

“When everyone was staring?”

 

Sherlock nodded mutely, looking guilty. “I didn’t mean to say it in front of everyone, but she was very angry. She would have taken him home. She was going to hit him again.”

 

“I know, Sherlock. You did a good thing.” Mycroft blew out a breath. “It’s a delicate situation. It probably would have been better not to bring attention to the abuse in the presence of his peers, but I understand why you did it. You saw a situation and attempted to mitigate it the only way you knew how.”

 

Sherlock was still silent, eyes downcast, and Mycroft felt the need to continue.

 

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. I mean that. These things are difficult. David was probably very embarrassed himself. He probably tries very hard to hide his mother’s behavior.”

 

“Why? What’s he got to be embarrassed about? His mother was the one doing wrong.”

 

“I know, but she’s still his mother.” Mycroft said simply. “That might make it all the worse. Sometimes people resent being in a position like that, and they lash out at those who try to help.”

 

“People? What do you mean? What position?”

 

“Victims of abuse. It’s not an uncommon response, Sherlock. Don’t take it personally.”

 

“I don’t like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“That name. 'Victims of abuse.' Why would you call people by the things that happen to them, things they can’t control?”

 

“I…” Mycroft was surprised to find himself at a loss for what to say. “It’s just semantics, Sherlock. I don’t think it’s meant to harm.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t.” His brother relied, eyebrows drawn. “It makes you sound helpless. I don’t think David likes it either. That’s probably why he got so angry.”

 

“Yes, that’s probably true.”

 

“And you can be both.” Sherlock said suddenly. “You can be more than one thing. People who’ve been hurt can hurt other people.”

 

"Yes, that’s often the case.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why would you do that if you know what it’s like?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “People all deal with things differently, Sherlock. We’ve done a great deal of research into the human psyche, but I don’t think we’ll ever be fully able to understand one’s motivations unless we ourselves were in their position.”

 

Sherlock was quiet again, simply nodding his understanding. Mycroft decided to move to a safer topic.

 

“How were your moths?” He asked eventually. “Anything new to report?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and then his shoulders fell. His whole body seemed to deflate.

 

“I’m not doing that experiment anymore.”

 

“Whyever not?” Mycroft asked, disarmed. “You love those blasted creatures.”

 

Sherlock was slow in responding, as if choosing his words carefully.

 

“I...don’t have sufficient means to continue.”

 

“Means?” Mycroft repeated, “Sherlock, what’s happened?”

 

Sherlock looked stoic, staring at a spot on the wall, and Mycroft saw his lip tremble as if fighting tears.

 

“Sherlock, please.” He said gently.

 

“It was David and his friends.” He eventually admitted. “He’s very popular, and I don’t really...have friends.” He shifted uncomfortably.

 

Sherlock was unique in that regard, and Mycroft sometimes wondered if he ought to encourage him to foster more relationships—even on a superficial level. Mycroft shared his disdain for human stupidity, but not his uncanny ability to alienate people. Unlike Sherlock, he had learned to navigate the social ladder easily—was rather well-liked by his peers and on his way to becoming a highly-regarded member of society.

 

“He told them I was making it up, that I was spreading lies because I’m jealous. I told them that was horrible, that I would never make up something like that, and anyway, why would I want to? But most people think I’m odd already because I don’t talk much during the lesson or play their games at recess. And they sometimes don’t like that I can see things and know things, so they believed him.”

 

Mycroft opened then closed his mouth, again finding himself unsure of what to say. Sherlock saved him the trouble of having to suitably articulating his feelings by beginning to speak again.

 

“I told them that it didn’t matter what they said, because I didn’t care anyway. I knew I was telling the truth. Then I went to wash the dirt from my fingers so I could tend to the moths and when I got back…”

 

This time, a tear did slip from his eye, betraying the otherwise neutral expression on his face.

 

“They’d killed them. Crushed them with their shoes and ground the scales from their wings into the countertop.”

 

He took a shaky breath, looking embarrassed at the way his voice wavered.

 

“They said it would teach me not to tell tales about people.”

 

“They killed them?” Mycroft asked, feeling the blood rush to his face as anger welled up alongside the sorrow he felt for Sherlock like a punch in the gut. “All of them? Why didn’t anyone stop them? Where was Ms. Berry?”

 

“It’s not a big deal. They’re just moths.” Sherlock said, mechanically, and Mycroft got the uncomfortable feeling that he was reading from an imaginary script more than expressing original thought. He knew that tone, had used it himself a hundred times, and it unnerved him to hear it fall from Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“Sherlock, you know that isn’t true.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, so Mycroft continued.

 

“It’s okay to be upset. You know that, right?”

 

Sherlock still didn’t directly respond, but Mycroft was relieved when he at least looked up, acknowledging that he’d spoken.

 

“There was one…” he started, answering Mycroft’s earlier question. “It’s just a little one, I think they must have missed it, but...Ms. Berry was helping other kids into the car with their parents, so there was only Judy’s father in the room and I guess he wasn’t really paying attention.”

 

The memory seemed to pain him, and he paused but carried on.

 

“Ms. Berry was very cross with all of them. She made them apologize, and they had to stay late to clean up.” He shuddered a bit. “I think I would have preferred that they’d left. Mummy was a bit late.”

 

“Did they say anything else to you?” Mycroft asked carefully.

 

“No. But they were still angry.” He looked down again, and Mycroft wondered briefly if Sherlock’s aversion to eye contact was normal (before realizing the absurdity of the thought, as nothing about the boy had ever been normal).

 

“Ms. Berry believed me, though.” Sherlock continued, looking at Mycroft again. “She asked to speak to David in private when we were leaving. I think she’s going to tell someone about his mum.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Yes. He doesn’t deserve it.”

 

“No.” Mycroft agreed. “He doesn’t.”

 

“No one deserves that.” Sherlock added, almost to himself.

 

They both were quiet then, and Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was thinking of his own upbringing, how different their parents were from David’s. Mycroft suddenly felt hugely grateful to be born into the family that they were.

 

“What of the remaining moth?” Mycroft asked, breaking the silence. “You could start again?”

 

“There’s only one.” Sherlock replied, brows furrowed.

 

“Yes, well, you’d have to find some others, but you could start up a new population. I bet you could even talk mummy and father into letting you keep them here at home.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, considering. Mycroft kept quiet too, allowed his gaze to wander to the periodic table on the wall across the room—suddenly having the strange feeling he was intruding on something private. Finally his brother spoke again.

“Yes, I…I think I could do that.” Sherlock said tentatively—not quite smiling but with a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there moments earlier—and Mycroft wondered if what he was seeing was hope, manifested in a human expression.

**Author's Note:**

> I had Mycroft attending Eton (which, as I understand, is rather pricey) despite mentioning Sherlock wearing hand-me-downs in the same chapter, and I just wanted to expand upon that. Based on my own personal headcanon (as well as the shots of Sherlock's parents' house that we saw in Season 3), I just kind of went with Sherlock's parents being wealthy but not overly so. I imagine they live in a nice but not exceptionally extravagant home and are conscientious with their money. In that context, and especially considering mummy's view on the importance of education, it made sense to me that they were willing to tighten their purse strings where possible (i.e. clothing, food, automobiles) in order to afford the tuition for their children--and maybe they had some help from their own parents, in the vein of Gilmore Girls.
> 
> Also, on that note, I had mummy attending the university during the day, whether for teaching or research purposes. In the show she's said to have "given it all up for children", but she IS a mathematician, and if she's anything like Sherlock or Mycroft, she's passionate about her choice of career. It just didn't make sense to me to have her sitting around playing Susie Homemaker, especially now that both of her children are in school.
> 
> I realize that I've taken a lot of liberties with this story, so please let me know if anything is overly incorrect, especially if the error disturbs the flow of the writing.


End file.
